And Finally
by soapyjoes
Summary: Charlie gets a parcel that raises more questions than answers...
1. Chapter 1

"Charlie!" the shrill voice floated up the stairs. He hastily thrust the cardboard box under the bed, rearranged the covers to disguise it and shouted back "Coming Gran!" He'd spent the best part of an hour plucking up the courage to look in it and within minutes he'd had to hide it away again, like a guilty pleasure because she was demanding his attention yet again. He came downstairs and began collecting the glasses under the old crone's eye; Dad was slumped in his usual spot by the window, snoring drunkenly. He averted his eyes quickly trying to pretend he was somewhere else. "Hurry up with those!" Steph was standing by the glass wash, indicating with a motion of her hand that he should speed up. He dumped a pile in front of her and grinned. She hadn't aged well, he'd seen the pictures of her from when he was little and over the years the pounds had piled on, the hair had faded. With each rejection she'd retreated from the outgoing confident young woman Gran described to this blousy shell, flirting with the punters, a kind of standing joke among the students who frequented the place. He carried on retrieving glasses from around the room but his mind was elsewhere, where had it come from and who had sent it? They'd all been overly curious when the package had been delivered at breakfast, asking a million questions, Steph grabbing it from him and giving it a squeeze after shaking it violently. He managed to retrieve it from her and gave some farrago about asking Craig for finance magazines from the City office for a school project. They rapidly lost interest and carried on bickering over whose turn it was to open up and who's to clear the table. In fact without the parcel it was the same breakfast routine he could remember as far back as he could remember, although he did remember a time when Dad wasn't the last one to the table and wasn't accompanied by a hangover.

"You needn't think you're sloping off upstairs again, young man, get yourself down to the cellar and bring me these up" She handed him a list and ignored the angry glance he threw in her direction but no-one in the family stood up to Gran, she was a legend in the area. Even the McQueen matriarch, Jacquie Hutchinson, gave way when Gran was on the warpath. Jacquie ran the restaurant that was Gran's main competition in the village and their run-ins were also legend. He wondered when he'd be able to disappear and investigate the unknown box; the accompanying letter had been brief and cryptic.

"Dear Charlie,

You don't know me but I was privileged to know your mother. You'll find in this box some clues to who you really are, who your mother really was and who you should ask for the truth.

Foz"

He fingered the paper again, the box sitting on his bed while he savoured the anticipation. He looked again at the bedside photo, the only one with him and Mum, taken in a grey prison visiting room. According to Dad she was an angel seduced and betrayed by a vindictive pupil whose name was not allowed to be mentioned. The last time he'd tried Dad had suddenly lost it and swung for him, he'd been drunk of course but what Charlie had never been able to figure was why Dad had shouted "You murdering bastard!" at him. Gran had hurried him away upstairs and he'd heard raised voices long into the night. It had frightened him and he'd never referred to the incident again, the rest of family behaving as if it had never happened. It did coincide with Dad going off on one of his longest ever benders, not reappearing till a few days later, muttering an apology and thrusting a new pair of boots into his hands. Never one to look a gift horse, especially from Dad, he'd taken them gratefully and skipped out to footie practice. What was curious about the gift was Dad's previous determination he wasn't going to be a footballer but his natural talent had stood out at school and he'd soon been recruited to the squad.

He sat on the bed next to the box and prevaricated by looking at the wrapping. It had been posted in London but the markings on the box were in a foreign script and it was redolent with the smell of spices. He emptied out the contents, they consisted of a small packet wrapped in soft paper and tied in a faded ribbon, a bracelet that twinkled on the dull covered bedcover, some opened letters again bound together with the same faded ribbon, and a photograph.


	2. Chapter 2

Charlie sat observing his family as he munched on a piece of toast. He tried to look at them objectively, in a David Attenborough documentary kind of way. He wondered what bound them together as a tribe, shared adversities or just a disinclination to move out into the real world with real relationships? He shook his head; this was far too deep for a Sunday morning. He tried instead to concentrate on this morning's five a side and whether finally the coach thought he was good enough to put him in the starting line-up. He pushed his plate away and went to pack his kit. Frankie watched him go without comment, normally she'd have yelled at him for leaving the table without clearing his plate but even she could see that something was bothering him. "Oh shut up will you?" She yelled at Steph instead who was whining on about the lack of any decent talent in the bar last night, blaming her failure to meet her dream man on the dowdiness of her wardrobe and Frankie's insistence on her wearing the staff uniform. Steph sulkily stalked off in the direction of the bathroom and left Frankie alone with a monosyllabic Jake, who hadn't raised his bleary face from his plate since he staggered late as usual to the breakfast table. She sighed audibly "Something's troubling that boy, have you had words with him again?" she asked exasperatedly. Jake raised his head, shook it and returned to his food. She was about to probe further when a call from downstairs to sign for a delivery distracted her and the moment was lost.

Charlie walked wearily back to the Dog, he'd thought the ravages of a hard fought game would have distracted him from the box but it hadn't, it just lay there in the back of his mind the whole time, like an ident on the TV screen. It didn't obscure the whole picture but instead was a constant niggle. He hadn't yet had the courage to open any of it, it was Pandora's Box, he was sure once he did nothing would ever be the same. That had been his goal this morning watching his family, would he change them if he could and did he want to? He dumped the kit bag inside the door and trudged wearily upstairs. It was empty, Frankie was holding her usual court downstairs with the Sunday lunchtime crowd, Steph was vainly trying to hold back time with her weekly spa visit in town and Dad, Dad was somewhere in the village trying to drown himself away from his mother's watchful eye. Charlie showered and changed, retrieved the box from under his bed and sat looking at it, now was decision time. He could open it and change his life forever, possibly or he could carry it downstairs dump the whole thing in the bin and forget about it, his life carrying as usual. This last thought finally galvanised him into action, he tipped out the contents again and picked out the packet tied in ribbon. Inside was a small photo album the kind you carried with you on travels, he opened it and a piece of paper fell from the first page. He read it, it was a list of the photos, who where and when. He looked at the first entry, 'Me and Becca aged one' he looked at the photo, two children in classic photographer pose, a blonde child of about seven sat cuddling a dark haired toddler. Mum he thought in surprise looking at the blonde haired child and seeing the resemblance to the woman in his bedside photo. He had no idea who the dark haired one was, a cousin maybe? He turned the page of the album, two more photos, this time just head shots of Mum and the mystery girl grinning to camera. He checked the list but still no name just dates. He turned the page again and nearly fell off the bed in shock; he dropped the book, his hands shaking. He walked a quick circuit of the bedroom, sat down again heavily and picked the album up from the floor where it had landed. Staring out at him from the page was a photo of himself, oranged with age and one of him and Mum on the opposite side. He scrabbled around for the list and checked it, four and five were listed as 'Justin' and 'Becca with Justin!' he flicked through the remaining pages, there were three more of Mum with _him_ then the final one was a duplicate of the one he had on his bedside. He glanced at it, this Foz whoever he was, was messing with his head, people could fabricate photos couldn't they? It was some form of elaborate practical joke, only it wasn't very funny. He went back to the album; the remaining photos showed a happy couple laughing to camera, one showing _him_, his double with his hand resting on Mum's stomach, a protective, proprietary pose. He felt sick, he ran to the bathroom and heaved but nothing came up leaving him shaky and cold. This was more than a Pandora's Box; it had just shattered his whole life in one flick of the pages. He went back to the bedroom, pushed the album to one side and picked out the letters, desperate now for answers. They were all dated from before he was born and had been carefully sorted so they read in order. They were from the guy in the picture, he signed himself Justin on some of them, Jay on others, they were all to Mum. He read them through slowly and began to get a picture of the missing ones, the ones Mum had written in reply. It seemed he'd been locked up for something he hadn't done and Mum was desperate to get him out, where was Dad thought Charlie, where did he fit in? The last letter had been written and never posted, there was no stamp or postmark. He began reading it and immediately felt as if he'd intruded on something so intensely private it had never been meant to be read by anyone other than the writer, not even the intended recipient. The letter was dated 14th February and the writer had even recorded the time, midnight. It was a long outpouring of love and longing, the handwriting seemed different so he skipped to the end and was shocked by the signature, simply 'Becca'


	3. Chapter 3

He recalled little of the days that followed, he wandered in a daze. Fortunately Gran ascribed it to teenage moodiness and was as sharp with him as ever. As for the others, Dad included, they paid him the same attention as usual, none. Each evening he retrieved the box from under the bed, looked at the photos, read the letters and pondered their meaning. What did it all add up to? Dad wasn't Dad at all? Was this other guy his Dad? Was he the one Dad wouldn't talk about? The thoughts ran round and round his head till it buzzed and he shook with frustration, why couldn't he just ask? He lay back on the bed, how would he start that conversation? "Hey Dad you remember that parcel I got? Well it turns out it's full of Mum's old stuff and it looks like you're not my Dad after all, some blond guy is" Yeah he could just see that happening! But how did he explain it, the guy in the picture could have been his double? He needed some proof, something to tell this Foz guy he was barking up the wrong tree, he sat bolt upright, he needed something official, his birth certificate!

He waited till it was a busy evening, Gran and Steph run off their feet downstairs, Dad on an away match with the darts team. He ducked helping out downstairs, collecting glasses, claiming a surfeit of homework and too many deadlines. When he was sure he wasn't likely to be caught he ventured into the foreign territory that was Dad's bedroom. He flicked on the light and sighed, the room looked as if they'd just been burgled, clothes, papers, empty cans strewn around in disarray. He glanced behind him then walked further in, where would Dad keep anything important to him?

He tried the bedside drawers first but he found only dust and paracetemol. He tried the wardrobe and drew a blank, nothing resembling papers either in it or on it. He sat down on the bed, pondering his next move. He swung his legs back and forth as he sat there till felt the base of the bed give against his heels. He dropped to the floor and pulled the duvet out of the way. Pushed further under the bed by heels was a black concertina type file. He pulled it out and swept it clear of dust balls, it fastened with a clasp that locked, holding his breath he tried it and with a tiny click it flipped open. Inside the various compartments were stuffed with papers, he picked it up from the floor and carried it through to the privacy of his bedroom. The first few were old bills, mostly red reminders. He discarded those and carried on working through each compartment methodically. The next contained old photos, Mum and Dad at their wedding with Gran and Grandpa Jack, all of them holding glasses and toasting the unknown photographer. He stroked Grandpa Jack's face absently, he missed him at training, his voice booming encouragement and support across the park. The rest seemed to be of Dad's long departed mates, nobody he recognised from Dad's current drinking cronies.

He stuffed them back and turned his attention to the next compartment, pulling out what appeared to be plans for a garden with a list pinned to it of plants and prices. The paper was so old the ink had faded. Charlie sighed, Gran had told him Dad had had a great career ahead of him until… at that point she always broke off and sighed. Charlie thought she'd meant the drink but now he was beginning to wonder if it was his own parentage that had caused the problems. He placed them back inside, so far this fishing expedition had revealed little, most of the other compartments were empty, which just about summed dad up he thought. It was with little optimism he checked the last one, pulling from it an old brown envelope. He turned it over and his heart skipped a beat, it was addressed to Rebecca Dean.


	4. Chapter 4

He loosened the flap and pulled out three folded pieces of paper, he opened them out and the first was a letter curt and to the point

"Jake

Found these at Becca's. Give them to Charlie when he's old enough to understand.

Nancy"

He looked at the second sheet; it was his mother's degree certificate. He looked at it for a long time, Gran and Dad always keen he should leave school in spite of his good grades, wanting him to do the minimum and get a job. Well, here was the proof Mum had thought differently. No wonder Dad had never shown him this, it blew all his arguments out of the water. He felt the familiar surge of irritation with them both, trying to mould him in Dad's image. He almost turned on Gran once when she'd given a long speech about how education never did anyone in the family any good, with the retort of 'Look how well Uncle Craig's done!" but he'd stopped himself in time. Uncles Craig and John-Paul were barely mentioned and definitely swept under the carpet, in spite of their successes in the world's of finance and literature. Not many fifth years could boast an uncle in high finance with a partner who was a published author, but Frankie and Dad's continuing belief it was 'just a phase' made it difficult for them to visit. Charlie had kept the birthday cards and presents secret from the rest, hoping one day the channels would open and they'd be a normal family.

This brought him back to his current predicament, what the hell was he doing rummaging through Dad's things on the sly? Doing the one thing he loathed Gran doing, snooping. He was about to place the papers back in the wallet when they slipped from his grasp and fluttered to the floor. In that moment his world was changed for spread out at his feet, the third sheet was revealed. It wasn't his birth certificate, it was a typewritten letter headed Woburn Scientific Services and dated February 2007. He picked it up and read it, he then read it again and a third time just to make sure he'd understood. His legs seemed to have lost their strength and he thumped to the floor. Dad had had him DNA tested, whatever Dad thought, there was enough doubt for him to have had a test done. The results, he couldn't acknowledge them in his head, the results turned everything on its head. Dad was not his Dad; it said so here in black and white. He shied away from the letter and looked again at the note from Nancy. Its tone indicated familiarity but not liking, there was no opening Dear or ending with love or best wishes. Someone close to Mum, someone who knew Dad and was not a fan. He had to admit few people were these days but back then? According to Gran Dad was a popular guy, could have had his pick and chose badly. Granted the only time she'd said that in his hearing Dad had turned on her and another row had ensued.

Which brought him back full circle, he felt sick when he thought about it. His whole life, well nearly his whole life was a lie, he belonged to the guy in the photo, he belonged somewhere else. For a moment he felt cheated, then he thought about them all downstairs, the Deans, he knew round about they were known as the Desperate Deans but they were his family. What should he do now? The sound of footsteps on the stairs panicked him and he thrust the papers back into the wallet and stuffed it under his bed, throwing himself on it in a study of teenage innocence when Frankie poked her head around the door, grimaced at the state of the room and handed him a clean pile of washing.


End file.
